


Four Musketeers and One Red Guard Heist

by libraryv



Series: Shots of Musketeer Adrenaline [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Banter, Bar Room Brawl, Heist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: After a night of tavern fun, the four musketeers realize they'll have to steal back an item of political importance from the Cardinal's Red Guards.
Series: Shots of Musketeer Adrenaline [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1450180
Comments: 27
Kudos: 36





	1. Too Many Drinks and One Stolen Letter

Porthos rose from a crouch, his laughter bellowing above the tavern’s nightly clamour of cheerful noise. He stood, rising his arms triumphantly in the air; he was a local favourite, and he had rewarded some heavily invested odds.

“Yes!” cheered d’Artagnan, and he and Aramis embraced, laughing and exultant, as Athos smiled into his wine glass. 

The tavern crowd swarmed towards Porthos, but he cut a path through them easily, heading back to his friends. 

“Wine!” he yelled to the barkeep, but he didn’t have to bother; people were pressing drinks eagerly into his hands.

“A thorough job,” noted Athos, nodding at Porthos’ opponent. The red guard was still curled up into a grimacing ball on the floor. His friends were kneeling by him.

“Nah, I barely touched ‘im,” Porthos grinned, and Aramis chuckled, slapping him on the back.

“You there!” shouted one of the guards “You’ve dealt with our friend too heavily!”

He stood up.

“Musketeers, always high and mighty!” he shouted, and the crowd, quieter and muttering now, let him through. Porthos merely crossed his arms, a grinning, immovable wall of muscles.

The crowd tittered thirstily; two fights in a row with the giant Musketeer was a treat.

“I will have my vengeance!” stated the man. Porthos, towering over him, merely shook his head. 

The red guard tried again.

“Vengeance, I say, on my friend’s behalf!” 

At this, the crowd began to laugh. Porthos would obviously crush him. The man gave Porthos’s solid chest an ineffective push. D’Artagnan swallowed the last of his drink, slamming it down and coming to stand between the two men.

“Have it then, fool!” he said. “I accept your challenge, on my friend’s behalf!” 

Athos sighed, and Aramis and Porthos exchanged a grin. D’Artagnan continued to stare stormily at the man. The man let out a sarcastic guffaw.

“Oh, is that a Gascon accent that I hear? Of course! I suppose Treville is desperate for recruits. Come on, hothead, let’s see if a country boy can point a sword in the right direction.”

This was met with a shout of laughter from the other red guards, and d’Artagnan’s cheeks grew hot.

“Indeed!” he hissed, and drew his sword smoothly from its sheath, flipping the handle easily from his left hand to his right in a fluid motion. 

“Hmmm,” said d’Artagnan, grinning widely at the sudden astonishment on the guard’s face. “I do hope I can manage to point this in the right direction.”

The man drew his own sword, and so did his friends. People began to back away and give them room. 

“Messieurs…” pleaded the barkeep. Nobody paid him any attention.

“You’re outnumbered,” the guard sneered at d’Artagnan.

“Incorrect,” came Athos’ steel voice, and D’Artagnan heard the sound of his brothers’ swords cutting into the air beside him.

There was a breath of stillness as the two groups of men faced each other and the patrons gathered around looked on.

Then, with a sudden rush, blades met. The tavern exploded; the watching crowd took advantage of the fight to join in, turning over tables and flipping chairs. Coins rained to the floor. People screeched and scrambled with relish, boots stomped over spilled cards and fists flew, smacking into flesh.

“It’s chaos!” shouted Aramis happily, as he threw a punch that landed in another man’s stomach. His victim doubled over, stumbling backwards into another man, who tossed him into d’Artagnan’s back.

D’Artagnan stumbled, then caught himself, laughing, his sword flashing quicksilver against another guard’s as the first red guard sauntered up to Porthos and drew back his fist.

“Porthos!” shouted Athos in warning, looking up briefly from his own duel, and Porthos turned just in time as the guard slammed into him, and they both went down, fists flailing.

A few moments later and Porthos jumped back up, his deep laughter rumbling through the crowd.

“Another drink!” thundered Porthos, and the merry, roiling crowd roared its approval.

********** 

“I’ll never have another drink in my life,” grumbled Porthos, trudging up the garrison stairs behind Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan.

The early sun beamed down softly onto the garrison courtyard, lighting upon the musketeers at sword practice and warming the horses shifting in their stalls. 

“Why,” questioned d’Artagnan, squinting into the gentle light as if it were blinding, “does Treville insist upon these meetings so early in the morning?”

“I’ve always been more of an afternoon man, myself,” agreed Aramis, sweeping off his hat to rake a hand through his hair and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Shhhh,” mumbled Porthos. “Yer all yellin’ so loud that I can’ hear Athos.”

“I have not said a word,” stated Athos mildly from under his hat, but he reached up to pull the brim down even farther, hiding his face.

They reached the landing, and Athos’ knock brought about a crisp, “Enter!”

Treville watched, unimpressed, as they shuffled slowly in.

“Good morning!” he barked brightly.

Aramis winced, and Porthos shuddered. 

“ _Is_ it all that good?” muttered d’Artagnan, and Athos gave a tiny smirk beside him.

Treville pretended not to hear. 

“You are on guard duty at the King’s party this evening,” he began, and at the slight groaning that met this statement, he continued, raising his voice.

“And you’re going to look sharp, because the Comte de Caron will be in attendance, and it is during this party that I want the transfer of the correspondence to occur. Am I understood?”

At this, Treville’s sharp blue eyes fell on Porthos, who managed to straighten, and nod. 

“Yes, Cap’n.”

Treville’s eyes roamed over them.

“Am I also correct in understanding your activities last night, that in absolutely no way had to do with the King’s law against duelling, especially while drunk, will not, in any manner, hamper your ability to successfully carry out this mission?”

There was an embarrassed silence. Treville continued to stare at them beadily. 

“Am I correct?” 

“Yes, Captain,” said Athos, who alone was able to meet Treville’s assessing gaze.

“Good,” said Treville briskly, then reached for a parchment on the corner of his desk. “You are dismissed.”

The four friends made their way out of his office, trudging down the stairs and reaching the courtyard, where they let out a collective breath.

Aramis whistled, smiling.

“That was bracing.”

D’Artagnan put his arm around Athos’ shoulder and leaned against him, gusting a sigh. 

“I don’t know how he manages to sound so furious when he speaks so quietly.”

Porthos tightened his bandana.

“I’m no fan of palace guard duty, but at least it’s easy.”

Athos nodded, lifting his head so they could see his eyes. 

“The transfer of the letter should be a simple enough task.”

Porthos patted his chest confidently. 

“Got it righ’ here.”

Aramis nodded, then yawned, assuming a lofty air.

“Excellent. I think I will find morning’s peace in biblical study. Madame de Beaumont was having particular trouble with a certain passage, and there is nothing more refreshing than helping a fellow student of the verses.”

Porthos snorted. 

“Yeah, I’ll bet studying with Madame de Beaumont leaves you both _real_ refreshed.”

D’Artagnan grinned, and Athos rolled his eyes. 

“Make sure you actually do rest, gentlemen. We do not want to report to Treville that we failed to pass the letter to the Comte.”

They nodded at each other, and had begun to walk towards the garrison exit, when Porthos suddenly stopped, his hands patting wildly all over his uniform.

“What is it?” asked Aramis.

Porthos looked up.

“I think we’re gonna fail to pass the letter to the Comte. I don’ have it.”

Aramis adjusted his hat.

“I’m sure it’s just misplaced.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “ In your quarters, no doubt.”

Porthos shook his head, his face paling as he looked at them. 

“No. I - the red guard who came after me last night. Tackled me.”

Athos looked at him, catching on before the others.

“It was a ruse. The whole evening. A distraction, to determine which one of us had it.” 

Comprehension dawned on Aramis’ face. 

“They figured it out and took it from you.”

Porthos took a step backwards, his face desperate.

“The Cardinal can’t get that letter. He-”

“Is returning to Paris tonight,” finished Aramis, reassuring. “We still have time.”

“Time for wha?” asked Porthos.

D’Artagnan looked at the others, grinning, then stepped forward. 

“To steal it back.”


	2. Too Much Sun and A Little Bit of Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis has an idea, and the friends set off to steal the letter.

The sun had come out in full force, beaming hotly down onto the four friends. The blades of Athos and d’Artagnan’s swords were illuminated in its rays as the two brothers practiced in slow motion, stripped to their shirtsleeves in the heat. Porthos and Aramis sat nearby at a small table, gulping down cold water. 

“Are we sure,” said Porthos, “that we can steal this letter back.”

“I say we tell Treville,” suggested Aramis, shading his eyes from the sun as he watched d'Artagnan and Athos circle each other.

Porthos shook his head.

“No. Treville trusted me with this mission. I’m not lettin’ the Cap’n down.”

“What is the significance of the letter?” queried Athos, his eyes on d’Artagnan’s, trying to read the next move.

Porthos sighed heavily, clearly reluctant to divulge too much information. 

“It’s between the Queen, an' her...”

Aramis stood up abruptly, and Athos and d’Artagnan halted their movements.

“It can compromise her Majesty?” Aramis looked down, hands on hips. “Then there’s no alternative. We must get it back.”

There was a moment of pure, uncomplicated resolve as the four men looked at each other. The task in front of them shifted, morphing from a rompish prank into a matter of dangerous political importance.

“First,” said Athos, lunging forward again and blowing the sweaty hair out of his eyes with an upward huff, “we need to discover the Red Guard’s name and his whereabouts for the day.”

Porthos buried his head in his hands. 

“How will we manage that?”

“Easily,” replied Aramis. “The key to the Red Guards is Coralie, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Coralie’s best friend is currently, shall we say, entangled, with the captain of the Red Guards.”

Porthos lifted his head, dubious. “An’ this Coralie will tell us about the Red Guards because…?” 

“Because she fancies d’Artagnan,” smiled Aramis.

“She does?” d’Artagnan stopped in the middle of slow motion feint to the side and looked up, ignoring Athos’ rapier point playfully catching him on his chest. 

“You’re pretty dashin’, I’ll admit,” teased Porthos, as d’Artagnan grinned at him, shrugging, and Athos _tsked_ softly at the lack of focus. Then d’Artagnan looked at Aramis.

“Wait - how do you know all of this?”

“Aramis makes a point of knowing as much palace gossip as he can,” stated Athos, a slight tone of disapproval in his voice.

“And aren’t you glad I do,” returned Aramis smugly, “because I know that Coralie is the key to the Red Guards, which solves our current predicament.”

Athos tilted his head in reluctant agreement.

“And d’Artagnan is the key to Coralie,” continued Aramis, thinking out loud and beginning to pace. “I suppose we could temporarily relieve Leon and Patrice on duty at the Louvre and try and get d’Artagnan to speak to Coralie, and...do you two EVER stop?” The last part of this was directed at Athos and d’Artagnan, who had begun to lunge in synchronization, swords out.

“No,” they chorused at the same time.

“Well, we must begin somewhere,” declared Athos, straightening suddenly. He whipped his sword down through the air decisively.

Aramis nodded, took another gulp of water from the glass on the table, and walked over to d'Artagnan, clapping his younger brother on the shoulder.

“Come along, my friend. Let’s go see if your Gascony charm can dazzle some information out of Coralie.”

************

“Which one?” Lille and her friend Coralie were giggling in the corner of the Queen’s pastel-coloured music room, nudging each other and watching the various men currently at court.

“The tall one, by the right door.” Coralie carefully avoided looking in the direction she was speaking of.

“The handsome Musketeer with the sparkling brown eyes?”

“None other.”

“But you must admit, both men at the door fit this description.”

More giggling.

“Why yes, but it is said that the young one is exceptionally daring. He is a new recruit, and I heard that he is quite stormy - which, I gather, translates into quite passionate.”

They laughed, their fans flashing rapidly to cool their cheeks.

Across the room, Aramis caught d’Artagnan’s eye and grinned.

“I do believe this plan will work. Are you ready to be stormy and passionate?”

A hint of a smile played on d’Artagnan’s face as he looked down, fiddling with a buckle on his wrist guard. 

“When am I not?”

Aramis chuckled, then a bright smile lit his face as he made eye contact with the two ladies, and raised his hat to them. Coralie snapped her fan shut, and called softly,

“Come join us in a game of Belote, Messieurs. Lille will disgrace me if I do not have help.”

Aramis smiled. 

“Ah, mademoiselle. We are Musketeers, on guard, and can only answer a call for aid.”

Coralie dimpled at him in delight.

“You do me dishonour, monsieur. I should think a lady’s plea for assistance qualifies.”

“In that case, let me recommend my friend, here.” Aramis gestured to d’Artagnan, who stepped forward, and Coralie blushed. She opened her fan again.

“Will you join me, monsieur, and help me play the game?” she asked.

“I will help you win it,” grinned d’Artagnan, bowing, and Coralie’s fan began to flutter promisingly.

**************

“Well?” said Porthos, as Aramis and d’Artagnan strode back into the garrison courtyard two hours later.

“Well, I’d say that under my doting tutelage, our country boy is progressing quite nicely in the art of charming a woman-”

“I meant, with gettin’ information on the Red Guards,” growled Porthos.

“Oh yes, that!” laughed Aramis, as he and d’Artagnan grinned at each other. Athos, testing the bridle on his horse, shook his head.

“The Red Guard we're in search of is Jules Bernet, he’s spending his next two days’ leave at Chateau Vaux, which is an hour’s good riding from here, and was bragging quite loudly about the acquisition of a certain letter, which he keeps possessively on his person,” said d’Artagnan, as he threw himself onto the bench with a tired sigh. He helped himself to a glass of water and drank thirstily.

“And,” added Aramis, sinking gratefully down beside d’Artagnan and pouring his own drink, “the Cardinal always has the Chateau under heavy guard. The ladies did not know exact numbers, of course.”

“Right,” said Porthos, standing and looking at Athos, who nodded and adjusted his hat, “whatever their number is, it’s no match for us.”

“While you were gone, Porthos and I have agreed on a plan,” said Athos.

“Which we’ll tell you about, but firs’ we should be headin’ to Vaux,” chuckled Porthos, clapping his hands on Aramis and d’Artagnan’s shoulders.

“Yes yes, no rest for the wicked,” said Aramis, taking a last swig from his glass.

“Well, tha’ certainly applies to you, but what about us?” teased Porthos, as the four friends walked to the ready horses. They mounted them, adjusting the girths and putting their boots in the stirrups as Aramis and Porthos bickered good-naturedly. 

“To Vaux, gentlemen,” Athos declared, and they rode out of the garrison, kicking up puffs of dust and dirt in the afternoon sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, Chateau Vaux-le-Vicomte wasn't built yet - it would be built in the time of the "current" king's son, for Monsieur Nicolas Fouquet. It would be quite an important royal setting both historically and in Dumas' future Musketeer novels, but for my story it's just another royal residence that the Cardinal happens to favour.


	3. A Few Doubts and One Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos lays out the plan, and things should go smoothly...as long as everyone can stay away from doubt and stay on task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the slowest chapter in this story - but the next two are pretty much nonstop, once everything unfolds! :D

The wooden sign for _The Black Tulip_ creaked in the midday heat, swinging on rusty hinges. The carved letters of the name were worn almost into oblivion, but the dulled cacophony from behind the splintered doors indicated that the old tavern had not lost its place as the most popular stop on the road to Vaux.

The Musketeers dismounted, leaving their horses with the stableman, and stretched in the sunshine.

“Nothing better for a private conversation than a loud room,” observed Aramis.

“Nothin’ better for my stomach than a meal,” agreed Porthos, and he strode ahead of them through the doors.

The bustling ale house was dim and crowded; filled to bursting with hungry and dusty travelers. The four men were seated, and after their lunch was paid for and brought to them, along with a bottle of serviceable wine, they bent their heads together. 

“Bernet,” said Athos, taking a sip from his glass and beginning the conversation without preamble, “will have given us two options.”

“He will either have the letter on him, or have it hidden somewhere,” guessed d’Artagnan, and Athos gave him a nod.

“And so you’re thinking we should divide and conquer?” said Aramis thoughtfully, stroking the stubble on his jaw, and giving the serving woman a dazzling smile as she came over with another bottle of wine, causing her to blush and scurry away again.

Porthos grinned. 

“Conquer is right. But there’s a few problems.”

“Bernet will know us from the brawl last night,” d’Artagnan stated, indicating himself and Porthos.

Athos nodded again.

“Aramis and I will arrive at the main entrance, and ask our fellow servicemen for dinner.”

“They can hardly deny us a gentleman’s hospitality,” put in Aramis, seeing where this was going. “Both Red Guards and the Musketeers; we are on the same side. They serve France alongside us.”

“Supposedly,” muttered Porthos.

“It is safe to assume that Bernet will not recognize Aramis and I as readily as he would Porthos and d’Artagan,” continued Athos. “We will go in one way, and you two will go another.”

Porthos gave d’Artagnan a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Hope you like sneakin’ in through abandoned wine cellars.”

Athos took a final sip of his wine and put it down. “It will not be difficult to ascertain the whereabouts of the letter, one way or the other.” He looked at each of them in turn, his blue eyes glinting. “The challenge will be speed.”

“Bernet will be onto us pretty quick, I imagine,” agreed Aramis.

“Athos an’ I figured the best way is to get in n’ out, quick as we can, then meet up at a rendezvous poin’ in the woods beyond the Chateau’s lake” Porthos said, stretching his neck. “We’ve just gotta get the letter.”

“I have no fear of that,” said d’Artagnan, leaning back comfortably in his seat.

“Do you never doubt that things will work out?” smiled Aramis at his younger brother.

“Not when it comes to the four of us,” said d’Artagnan easily, giving them all a grin full of touching confidence.

Aramis laughed, squeezing the young musketeer’s shoulder affectionately as the four of them stood, preparing to leave.

“You are very good for my ego, d’Artagnan.”

“As if that ever needed any helpin’” commented Porthos, eyes crinkling in merriment, earning a smirk from Athos and a delighted burst of laughter from d’Artagnan.

Outside, their horses were brought to them, and the friends began checking bridles and saddlebags. 

They began to walk their horses away from the tavern and toward the main road, when Athos said, his eyes carefully on the road ahead, “We have company, coming up behind us.”

Porthos pretended to bend and check a buckle on his boot. “What handsome red capes those men have,” he commented wryly, rising and running a hand down his jaw. 

Five Red Guards walked passed, weaving slightly with drink and chatting merrily to each other, oblivious.

“-Vaux’s a choice place for leave, I can’t wait-”

“Bernet’s there, though, and he’s an idiot-”

“Did you hear that they’ve brought women? Arriving this afternoon. The Captain’s requested Lille, and her friend, oh, can’t think of her name-”

“Coralie. She’s a feisty one, likes card games.”

“I have a few games I’d like to play with her, and they don’t involve cards.” 

The men snickered, and d’Artagnan’s hand went reflexively to the hilt of his sword.

Athos caught the movement, and said in a warning tone,

“D’Artagnan.”

“Coralie’s going to be there, and those men-” burst out d’Artagnan, unable to refrain from flinging an arm in their direction. 

The Red Guards looked up, squinting at him. Two stepped towards D’Artagnan, who glared back. 

“May I help you?” he hissed at them, drawing his sword an inch out of its sheath, the metal glittering in the sun.

“I understand,” said Aramis. “How strong a chivalric streak can run.” He put a gentle hand on d’Artagnan’s arm. “But we have a mission ahead of us. Right?”

One of the Red Guards bared his teeth at d’Artagnan, who was practically bristling with energy.

“Stay. Focused.” Athos’ soft voice in d’Artagnan’s ear, doing more to calm him than anything Aramis or Porthos could have done.

Athos’ eyes sought out his younger brother’s, steady and sympathetic, forcing d’Artagnan to turn back to him. 

D’Artagnan stood still for a moment, fighting against impulse, before closing his eyes and letting loose a long breath, his shoulders relaxing. 

“Right.”

He let his sword drop back into place, and the Red Guards stepped back, scowling, before turning away again. Porthos nodded, then clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder. 

“Good man. Now let’s not lose any more time.”

At this statement, the musketeers mounted their horses and picked their way to the road. Porthos and Aramis took off in a cloud of dusty gravel, Athos quick to follow with a click of his tongue. D’Artagnan, usually eager to be the first one off the mark, turned his head one last time in the direction of the group of Red Guards, heart still pounding, before urging his horse onto the road to Vaux.

*****

Chateau Vaux was an impressive sight in the late afternoon. A spotless lake sparkled in the sun, the surrounding manicured lawn dotted with sculpted shrubbery. The castle turrets rose proudly into the sky, the expensive glass windows gleaming.

“Ready?” Athos asked. The question was innocent enough, but his three friends knew him enough to read the real intent: _are we ready for what is about to happen?_

They looked at each other, their shared bond of duty and brotherhood rising up between them, strong and quiet as a heartbeat.

“Let’s go do our job,” said Aramis. He raised his eyebrows beneath the brim of his hat, nodding at his friends, the usual playful expression on his face smoothed to a solemn one. Porthos and d’Artagnan dismounted, leading their horses onto a side path that went into a small grove.

Aramis watched them go further into the trees, then turned to Athos, leaning forward on his horse and speaking in a low voice.

“Should we be worried about d’Artagnan, and Coralie, this evening?”

Athos adjusted his hat.

“He is capable of far more than he knows.”

Aramis nodded, and sat back, almost missing Athos’ next statement.

“He only has to keep his focus.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan’s steps could be heard again on the path, and the conversation was over. 

The musketeers looked at each other, Porthos’ dark eyes creased with worry. He shuffled his feet.

“I’m sorry I brought you all into this mess. All this risk for a letter that I lost-” He broke off, clearing his throat in the silence.

“I happen to enjoy risk,” stated Athos mildly, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. 

Porthos looked up, appreciation on his face, and Aramis gave his shoulder a squeeze. 

“Besides, we’re Musketeers!” grinned d’Artagnan. “What’s life without a little risk?”


	4. One Heist, in Three Phases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I had to re-read this about a hundred times in order for it all to make sense how they pulled it off. :)
> 
> Here we go!

_**Phase One: Porthos and d’Artagnan**_

The musketeers stood grouped together at the edge of the wooded path; Chateau Vaux a stately view just beyond the trees.

“Remember,” said Aramis, sweeping a servant’s homespun hat onto his dark hair, “time is what we’re working against, especially since we took the long way from The Black Tulip. If something goes wrong, adjust as best you can, and keep going.” 

“We’re meetin’ back here in two hours, give or take a few minutes,” confirmed Porthos. “Athos, you an’ Aramis’ll be waitin’ here with the horses ready.”

They looked at each other in the golden evening; dappled patches of light illuminating the determination on their faces.

There were no platitudes or farewells. They had faced down too many missions to treat this one any differently. What lay ahead of them now was the task at hand, and the role they each had to play; the only thing that remained to do was to get the letter. 

With a final nod and a quick clasp of hands, the friends parted ways: Athos and Aramis heading for the front entrance of the Chateau, and d’Artagnan and Porthos walking in the opposite direction, picking their way silently through the trees, then onto the grounds.

They reached the side of the Chateau, keeping low to the ground and to the shadows along the arched walkway. Porthos was counting doors under his breath, then stopped at the fourth one, almost at the back of the palace. 

“This one,” he whispered to d’Artagnan, who pushed against the door. It remained closed, and d’Artagnan looked up, his brows drawing together. 

“It’s not opening.”

“What?” Porthos shook his head. “I’m sure this is the one.”

D’Artagnan shoved again. The door didn’t give. He glanced over Porthos’ shoulder.

“Mordioux! We’re not alone.”

Porthos looked behind him and swore. In the distance, two guards could be seen, coming out of the south garden shrubbery and right towards them. “Here, let me at it.”

D’Artagnan moved aside, and Porthos gave the door a strong push with his hands. 

Nothing. 

“Again!” said Porthos to himself, and backed up a few feet before running towards the door, throwing his weight against it. It swung open, and they rushed in, Porthos slamming it shut behind them. 

They stood there, blinking in the dark room and catching their breath, breathing in the smell of dust and dampness. 

“Athos said they added another level below ground, a few years ago, an’ were able to make a proper cellar,” whispered Porthos. “An’ this room’s been abandoned ever since.” He began to pick his way carefully through stacks of broken chairs towards a stone staircase, gesturing for d’Artagnan to follow.

“An’ because it’s abandoned,” continued Porthos, “it’s never guarded.”

D’Artagnan _tsk_ ed. “Lazy.”

Porthos shrugged. “Red Guards.”

“Good point.”

They chuckled softly, reaching the door at the top of the rough stairs.

Porthos gave it a gentle, testing push, and it creaked open. Silence on the other side. 

“I’m sure we’ll run into guards soon enough,” said Porthos, looking at d’Artagnan, who nodded. 

“I’m ready,” he replied fiercely, making Porthos smile, and they stepped carefully through the door into an empty hallway. 

They walked along for a few moments, turning corners and keeping close to the walls, when they heard loud chatter up ahead.

Porthos froze, then backtracked a few paces down the plush carpet, pulling d’Artagnan with him and hiding them both in a windowed, curtained alcove.

The group of guards moved closer, talking over each other.

“What do you think of Bernet bringing Lille and that girl here?” one of the guards asked, his voice ringing over the rest. 

“Think he should have brought more than two,” stated another, to general laughter.

Porthos exchanged a look with d’Artagnan, who gave him a tight smile.

“Still, I guess there’s nothing against us indulging in a little healthy competition for her, eh boys?”

D’Artagnan bit his lip, and Porthos reached out a placating hand, putting it gently on his younger brother’s chest.

“We can take turns,” returned his friend. “You just need a lesson in sharing, Patrice.” More laughter. 

D’Artagnan, fury bubbling, shifted impatiently. 

“Jus’ wait, D’Artagnan,” whispered Porthos through his teeth, looking at the anger in his brother’s eyes, “there’s too many of ‘em-”

D’Artagnan jumped out into the passage and drew his sword. 

“I’m going to teach you fools a lesson first.” 

The cluster of guards stopped, surprised. A large one, clearly in charge, stepped forward, squinting.

“I know who you are.”

“Oh yes?” D’Artagnan lifted his chin.

“Yeah. We heard about you, didn’t we? The young musketeer who’s always starting fights. You were at _The Black Tulip_ , earlier this afternoon. Henri said you drew your sword against him.”

A look of dull confusion crossed his face. 

“What are you doing here, now?”

“I told you,” said d’Artagnan, as the men closed in around him. “I’m here to teach you a lesson.” He chuckled. “You really are slow, aren’t you-”

The fist came out of nowhere, slamming hard into d’Artagnan’s jaw. His head snapped to the side, his limbs growing limp, and he sagged towards the floor. 

“You’re coming with us,” chuckled the guard, and two of his men picked up d’Artagnan, carrying him. 

Porthos clenched his fists as the men laughed; it went against every instinct he had to leave d’Artagnan at the mercy of the guards, but the image of the letter, and of the Queen, burned like a brand into his mind. He stayed hidden.

The cluster of guards heaved d’Artagnan along with them, down the passage and out of sight. Porthos took a deep breath, feeling dangerously close to punching the wall. He breathed slowly in and out, waiting until it was clear, then kept going.

_Phase Two: Athos and Aramis_

The servant led Athos and Aramis along the corridor to the dining hall, revealing three long tables and about sixty Red Guards assembled around them, laughing and chatting. At the far end, standing in the middle of a clustered group, stood Jules Bernet, captain of the Red Guards. His arm was thrown possessively around Lille’s shoulders, and her friend Coralie was laughing beside her. 

“Are you sure this will work?” breathed Aramis. 

“Bernet is obsessed with status and nobility; his dearest wish is to be officially at court,” replied Athos. “He knows of my background. This will work.”

“Musketeer Lieutenant Athos!” came the announcement.

The hall went quiet; the cheerful noise reduced to murmuring and whispers as Bernet came forward. His boots landed heavily on the flagstone floor. 

“Monsieur Athos, what a pleasure” he said, his voice cold. “What brings Treville’s celebrated swordsman deep into Cardinal Richeleu’s territory?”

“Hunger for a good dinner,” replied Athos, offering a bow. He rose again, his eyes not leaving Bernet’s. “I am en route to Fontainebleau, and remembered that Vaux-le-Vicomte was along the way.”

Bernet said nothing, studying him. 

“Come, Bernet” said Athos, “you are a captain and so a gentleman. I know you will not turn down a fellow soldier.” 

There was a moment of tense silence, then Bernet nodded, motioning for Athos to follow. The conversation rose around them again, and Athos took a seat next to Bernet, Aramis standing respectfully behind him.

A few more Red Guards sat by them, as well as Lille and Coralie. 

“Mademoiselles de Caron and de Laurent,” said Bernet carelessly, waving his hand for wine to be brought over. 

Athos stood, bowing before them, and sat back down again, taking a sip of wine. 

“I hear, Mademoiselle de Laurent,” he said casually, looking at Coralie, “that at court, you are fond of card games.”

Coralie nodded, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh yes, Monsieur. I adore them.”

Athos reached for his glass and fumbled it, knocking it into Bernet’s lap and splashing some onto his jacket. Deep red wine spilled onto the table, bleeding into the cloth, and Bernet and several others around them leaped up, exclaiming. 

“My apologies!” said Athos, rising to his feet as well.

Bernet was yanking off his jacket in disgust. 

“Let my man take care of it,” insisted Athos, and Aramis came dutifully forward, gently taking Bernet’s jacket away. Bernet barely noticed, swearing and shoving away from the table.

People were talking and crowding around, and Athos was calmly offering solutions and services. 

Nobody noticed Athos’ manservant meet up with a tall, broad musketeer in the shadows by the door and slip him a silver, filigreed key. Nor did they see the manservant take a similar-looking key from within his own shirt, and place it into the breast pocket of Bernet’s jacket. 

“My lord,” said Aramis with a bow, presenting Bernet’s jacket back to Athos. 

“Let me have that” snapped Bernet, grabbing it back and feeling the inside chest pocket. He breathed a sigh of relief, then looked around at everyone staring back at him. 

“What are you looking at?” His eyes fell on Athos, who swept into a bow. 

“My humblest apologies, Bernet. From one gentleman to another; I owe you a service.”  
Bernet seemed to fight some kind of internal battle, but then laughed loudly. 

“A favour then! Let us eat!” 

A cheer rose up from the men, and the party resumed their seats, the spilled wine having been cleaned up. Conversation at the table fell to the news of an intruder at the Chateau, who had been caught only half an hour earlier.

“Oh, the poor man! He’ll need water, won’t he?” Coralie was looking at Bernet with large, guileless eyes. “And some comfort - oh, do let me go down and visit him, Jules.”

“I hardly think that’s necessary.” Bernet exchanged a look with his second in command. “After all, it’s not as if you killed the bastard, eh Patrice?”

The guards at the table laughed, and Athos felt Aramis give a small shudder behind him. 

“Nah. Just hit him so hard I knocked him right out. Such a mouth on ‘im! Had to shut him up, so my jaw-” Patrice slammed his meaty fist against his palm, “-into his teeth.”

Coralie looked near tears. Athos cleared his throat.

“Whomever it is that you have captured, I believe you would be doing a service to the lady by letting her see him,” he said, his soft voice holding sway over the eruption of more laughter.

Bernet, annoyed, looked at Coralie, then back at Athos, looking every inch the disinterested nobleman.

“As you say,” growled Bernet. “Patrice’ll take you,” he said grudgingly to Coralie, who clasped her hands together in delight.

_Phase Three: D’Artagnan_

D’Artagnan’s jaw was throbbing, but that wasn’t what woke him. There was a falling jangling noise coming from somewhere, along with muffled voices. He opened his eyes, wincing, and took in the plain room before him. He went to bring his fingers up to touch his face, and realized that his wrists were bound tightly together. At least they weren’t behind his back. Gingerly, he brought up his hands and pressed two fingers against the right side of his mouth. Pain flared in a bright burst, and he hissed, taking his hands away. He gently probed his tongue into the corner of his mouth, feeling the dried blood there. One of his back molars felt loose.

“Terrific,” he muttered. 

The image of Porthos came to him from earlier in the hall; his brother’s face anguished, watching as d’Artagnan was carried away.

Sighing, d’Artagnan rolled over and slowly sat up, drawing his knees up and resting his tied hands on them. A tiny window above him let in a square of evening light onto the floor at his feet. They had taken his sword. He surveyed the door and realized that was where the noise was coming from; someone was turning the key in the lock.

He arranged his face to look carefully bored, and rested the back of his head against the wall. 

The door swung open to reveal the guard who had punched him, and, peeking her head from behind his back, was Coralie. 

“She heard we had captured a troublemaker down here, and insisted on bringing him water,” said the guard, indicating Coralie with his thumb. He smirked. “Women. Too soft-hearted for their own good.” He smiled indulgently at her. “Too many silly card games, eh?”

He stood aside, letting Coralie into the room, and d’Artagnan kept his expression neutral as he looked into her face, her eyes wide. He saw that her hands were trembling; the pitcher of water she carried was shaking. 

D’Artagnan didn’t smile, but gave her a slight nod of his head. Coralie took a deep breath, then dropped the pitcher.

“Watch it!” exclaimed Patrice, jumping out of the way of the shattered pieces of clay. Coralie knelt to pick up the pieces, shifting her weight to one knee and revealing two daggers strapped to her ankle. 

She pulled the daggers out, using the skirt of her dress for cover, and slid one skittering across the floor to d’Artagnan, where he stopped it and trapped it with the heel of his boot. He held out his bound wrists to her, and Coralie grabbed the other dagger, sawing through the rope and freeing his hands. 

“Hey!” yelled Patrice, lunging at Coralie and grabbing her roughly by her shoulder. A dagger flew through the air and embedded itself into his upper arm.

Patrice howled and stumbled backwards, letting go of Coralie, who scrambled to her feet away from him. D’Artagnan stood in a smooth movement, the other knife in his hand, poised and ready to throw. He pointed at the knife sticking out of Patrice’s arm.

“That was a warning; if you touch her again, the next one’s going straight through your throat.”

Patrice whimpered.

“You planned this,” he whispered, hunched over and frozen in place. He was staring from d’Artagnan to Coralie in amazement. 

“Of course,” said d’Artagnan cheerfully, taking Coralie’s hand and walking her gently past Patrice, towards the door. He continued to hold the dagger pointed at Patrice, but hardly needed to; the guard was too overcome with shock to do more than stare.

He looked at Coralie with a pleading expression. 

“When did you decide to betray us?”

“While I was playing silly card games, no doubt,” she returned with glee.

She and d’Artagnan went out, leaving Patrice gaping behind them in the cell. D’Artagnan slammed the door shut, locking it and dropping the key into his boot.

He and Coralie began to walk down the hall, stealing glances at each other.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

She nodded, rubbing the sleeve of her dress where Patrice had grabbed her, her eyes traveling down the side of his face. 

“That must hurt,” she said. “I didn’t realize they would be so rough.”

“I’ve had worse,” he replied, giving her a lopsided grin. “Porthos had the harder job; he had to watch me let myself get captured, and not do anything.” 

He ran a hand through his hair, and she could see him thinking. It was fascinating; his thoughts traveled so clearly across his features that she was able to guess what he wanted to know.

“Bernet doesn’t keep the letter on him, it’s in a locked box in his office. Earlier, at dinner, I gave Athos the correct signal, and Aramis made the switch.”

D’Artagnan let out a deep breath.

“So far so good.”

She let out a breath of nervous laughter. 

“We still need the letter.”

He grinned. 

“Well then, let’s make use of the fact that we're not being watched by any guards, and go meet Porthos with that key.”


	5. A Few Moments of Calm Before One Big Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys and Coralie are closer than ever to pulling this off. All that remains is to get the letter, then escape...

Back in the passage closest to the door Porthos and d’Artagnan had entered earlier, the large musketeer stretched his shoulders, grimacing at the familiar pull of muscle. He was not, by nature, prone to rumination, but he was unable to get the image of an unconscious d’Artagnan, being carried carelessly away by Red Guards, out of his head.

Soft footsteps could be heard coming towards him, and the next moment, Aramis turned the corner, grinning widely from underneath his servant’s hat.

“Do you know,” said Aramis in a conversational tone, “I think I may wear these clothes more often. Much more comfortable than leather.”

“Do you have it?”

Aramis withdrew a silver filigreed key from within a breast pocket.

“I’m a tad insulted you even had to ask.” 

Porthos swiped the key from Aramis palm with relief. He held it close, examining it. 

“Let’s hope it works.”

The playful gleam in Aramis’ dark eyes turned soft and serious.

“Let’s hope Coralie finds d’Artagnan. Did his capture go as expected?” 

Porthos sighed.

“Yes n’ no. They hit him so hard he lost consciousness.”

Aramis sucked in a breath, and Porthos looked down at his boots, frowning with worry.

“I didn’ think they’d be so rough.”

Aramis put a reassuring hand on the big musketeer’s shoulder. 

“He’s tough. And extremely capable, despite our endless teasing implying otherwise. If he asks later, I never admitted to such a thing.”

Aramis winked, and it worked; Porthos’ spirits rose. He chuckled at his friend, then mumbled,

“I’m tellin’ him as soon as I see him.”

“Tell who, what?”

Porthos and Aramis looked around the corner, and there was d’Artagnan, sporting a swollen jaw that did nothing to dispel a wide smile. Coralie was right in front of him, her steps quick. Her eyes were darting nervously around, but she looked composed.

Porthos and Aramis bowed in front of her, then Porthos reached for d’Artagnan and pulled his lanky frame into a hug. 

“Couldn’ ever forgive myself if they really hurt you. Kept thinkin’ the whole plan would be shot if they did.”

D’Artagnan pulled back and squared his shoulders.

“It takes more than a group of Red Guards to bring me down.”

D’Artagnan tried to dodge his hand, but Aramis ruffled d’Artagnan’s hair fondly.

“Tell that to your jaw, which I’ll need to look at later. Still, it’s good to know that bravado of yours appears to be fully intact.”

D’Artagnan shrugged good-naturedly, grinning, then asked, 

“Athos?”

Aramis nodded. 

“Still all on his own at the dinner party. Now that I’ve delivered the key, I suppose I should go rescue him from his own personal nightmare." He smiled. "Good luck, you three. See you on the other side.”

Aramis tipped his hat to them with a flourish, then turned and made his way silently back down the corridor.

Coralie had been watching the friends wordlessly, and Porthos glanced at her, smiling.

“Next step, Mad’moiselle Coralie? We’re runnin' low on time."

She took a deep breath.

“Next step: I show you where Bernet keeps the letter.”

*****

Bernet’s study turned out to be on the opposite end of the castle, away from the upper rooms, and close to the Eastern gardens of the Chateau. Coralie had managed to lead Porthos and d’Artagnan right to the door, the three of them snaking their way cautiously through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace. Porthos had been forced to strike a few stray Red Guards unconscious, but overall, they had been lucky.

They stopped at the heavy oak, listening. Coralie nodded.

“As you can see, he doesn’t have it guarded, as none of his men would dare steal from him.”

“Not t' mention, he thinks he’s got the only key that matters,” said Porthos, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Shall we?” asked d’Artagnan, and pushed the door. It swung open to reveal a room that was stuffed with lavish carpeting and furnishings, and a tall bookshelf that held few books and a lot of papers. Clothes, dishes, and a few weapons were thrown haphazardly about. 

Porthos harrumphed softly as the trio walked forward, gazing at the rich assortment of items. 

“This is what comes of bein’ the Cardinal’s pet.” 

D’Artagnan stopped in his tracks and _tsk_ ed at a particularly fine sword, lying half-buried under a stained jacket.

“He cares about his swords about as much as he does the state of this room. Do you think he’d notice if this went missing? He owes me a blade, after all.”

Porthos shook his head, chuckling.

“I doubt Bernet notices much of anythin’.”

“Gentlemen!” whispered Coralie, her tone urgent. She had brought a small box down from the bookshelf, holding it with trembling fingers.

Porthos joined her, and brought the key out, fitting it to the lock. 

“Lucky that you and your friend have a matching set of boxes, eh?” he said, and lifted the lid.

In the velvet lining lay a few pieces of gold, a handsome garnet ring, and a letter which bore the unmistakable seal of Her Majesty the Queen. 

Porthos closed his eyes, letting out a breath that he felt he’d been holding since morning. He didn’t need to examine it to know that it was the same letter they needed.

D'Artagnan, who had moved close to the door to keep watch, looked back and smiled. Then, his expression changed rapidly, and he shut the door. 

Coralie snapped the lid of the box shut and pocketed the key. Porthos placed the letter safely within his own clothes, then took the box from Coralie and placed it back on the shelf. 

“How many?”

D’Artagnan had his ear to the door, listening. 

“Hard to say. I would guess about four or five, by the footsteps.”

Coralie’s eyes widened. 

“Four or five?”

Porthos walked forward and tugged the sword d’Artagnan had been eyeing out from its place on the floor. He threw it to d’Artagnan, who caught it, eyes sparkling. 

“Porthos and I can manage that number with our eyes closed.”

Coralie looked between the two men.

“I’ve yet to see Treville’s famous Musketeers in real action.”

Porthos cricked his neck. 

“It’s your lucky day.”


End file.
